


When The Night Has Come And The Land Is Dark (I Won't Be Afraid Just As Long As You Stand By Me)

by enjolrasandthings



Series: An Avengers Alphabet [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Depressing Thoughts, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, Love, Luckily Sam is around to provide, M/M, Mild Self-Loathing, One random bitch, Part of a long-ass songfic series, Post-TA:AOU, Romance, Some v mild angst, Songifc, Steve is just a poor bean who needs hugs, Tony is a good friend, all the homo, but it all ends well, no drugs tho dw, pre-CA:CW, rated t&u for some whacky hallucinations and one case of potty mouth, thanks to sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasandthings/pseuds/enjolrasandthings
Summary: The first installation in a 27-part songfic series titled "An Avengers Alphabet"; this is 'W' and is inspired by Ben E. King's beautiful classic 'Stand By Me'.The Avengers are at a public function when Steve finds himself cornered by a familiar unfriendly face. Sam steps in to help and things escalate from there, in the best possible way.With brief cameos from Tony, a real bitch, Wanda, Clint, Nat and Rhodey.





	When The Night Has Come And The Land Is Dark (I Won't Be Afraid Just As Long As You Stand By Me)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing? It's my first time publishing a fic anywhere and I really hope y'all like it! It's part of a bigger series of songfics where each instalment represents one letter of the alphabet; this one is 'W', and the title is taken from Ben E. King's 'Stand By Me'. The pairing is Sam/Steve and the rating is Teen and Up.
> 
> Thank you in advance, and enjoy! <3
> 
> *DISCLAIMER* I do not own the characters in this work, they are property of Marvel Comics/Studios, nor do I own the song featured, which is wholly the property of King and Atco Records; I only own the storyline.

Steve’s gaze drifts slowly across the room, stopping to take in each of his friends; some, successfully socialising (Rhodey and Sam - and seriously how does Sam look so at ease and elegant doing that? Steve swears it's sorcery), some plastering on fake smiles while conversing with various government officials (Natasha and Tony), and some dancing to the light classical tunes of the live band (Wanda and Clint). He smiles absently, involuntarily at the two as they converse in private tones and drift smoothly across the dance floor, Wanda appearing more at peace than Steve has seen her in weeks; Clint has been good for her after everything, after _Pietro_ and _Sokovia_ , and she's been there to ease his mind of its guilt as well. What is probably becoming, or potentially already is an unhealthy codependency, is still just about the best thing to come out of anything for any of his friends lately. Steve doesn't have it in him to object. His gaze moves on.

 

They’ve been at this benefit for almost two hours now, and for the most part everyone has held out well (disregarding Tony’s overly-liberal drinking) and the evening has passed by smoothly. Steve, after a whole hour of talking to staunch, conservative politicians, had called it a night and tucked himself away in some discreet corner of the room to fruitlessly nurse a tumbler of one amber liquid or another, of Tony’s recommendation. He gazes down at the contents, watches the fluid surface tilt and swirl with each shift of his hand, and not for the first time wishes that the liquor could have some effect on him.

 

Just a few years ago - or at least what felt like a few years to Steve - in ‘41, Steve had been able to go out to locals and drink enough to send him stumbling blindly home, tumbling through the door and into bed with Bucky. For one night he could forget about his troubles, forget about all his shortcomings, who he was, who his world expected him to be, and simply _be_. He misses that feeling, of carelessness, of _easy_. Now, since what Tony has come to call “The Big Thaw”, things have fallen apart and the world nearly bitten the dust more times than Steve cares to count, and each near-Earth ending experience has taken its toll. Nothing is easy now, and he can't even drink to forget anymore; Steve misses both so much. He's half expecting the sky to start falling (again) one of these days, or all light to disappear from the universe and leave the planet to suffocate slowly before burning out entirely. Sometimes it feels like that already inside his head.

 

“You look like you're contemplating the meaning of life.” Tony pops up at his side, launching straight into a rant as he reclines sluggishly against the wall next to Steve, fumbling with one hand to stop himself slipping sideways. “Can 90-something-year-olds even still go through midlife crises? Is it the existential kind? Because I can't handle talking you through that crap, you'll have to get Bruce to-”

 

“No, Tony,” Steve interrupts, holding back from rolling his eyes. “I’m just...taking a moment. Waiting ‘til we can leave. Waiting for the next mission. The next disaster,” he explains, a lot more honest than he'd intended to be.

 

Tony falls quiet and merely flashes a brief smile, a mirthless, hollow thing that doesn't even remotely encroach upon his eyes. “Aren't we all, Cap?” he asks, and Steve manages a small, dry chuckle in response.

 

“I guess so…” he trails off, silence settling between the two, strangely calm in the buzz of the crowded ballroom.

 

Minutes go by, though Steve doesn't entirely keep track. He just keeps nursing his drink, thinking over past missions, over how much has changed in the five years since he awoke (finding Bucky, losing Pietro, gaining Vision, almost losing Sam which oddly hurts to think about the most). He and Tony don't move from their poor excuse for a hiding place, and in companionable silence the two simply watch the evening go by. After a time, Tony sighs longsufferingly and sinks to the floor on shaky legs.

 

“Are you feeling okay, Tony?” Steve enquires, truly concerned for his friend's welfare.

 

Tony merely waves a dismissive hand, offering an emotionless, “Never better, Capsicle.” Steve knows Tony is lying, knows by his tone and his glazed expression; his gut urges him to press further, but he also knows this is not the time nor the place to do so, and so he makes a mental note to check up on Tony the next day over fresh coffee and a sizeable stack of pancakes.

 

“You should make a move if you want to get out before the donation announcements start. Don't wanna get roped into those or you're stuck here for another couple of hours at least,” Tony mumbles, continuing under his breath with something like, “ _my presence is apparently mandatory, I have no fucking choice_ ”.

 

Steve laughs softly and smiles down at Tony, tilting his head. “Well that's my cue to leave, then,” he decides, downing what remains of his drink and bussing the glass on a passing tray. “Thank you for the warning, and uh… Good luck, I guess?” Steve tries for sympathetic, honest, but judging by Tony's bird-flipping reaction, his sympathy doesn't come across as sincere.

 

“See you back at the compound, Tony.” Steve waves a farewell to which Tony grunts an acknowledgement. Steve’s already heading towards the exit across the room, focused on avoiding conversation on the way.

 

_He should be so lucky._

 

“Leaving so soon, Captain? My, my, the press _will_ be disappointed.” A lilting voice behind him, laced with a false dulcet-softness he would recognise anywhere.

 

With reluctance, he turns, his suspicions soon confirmed. Miss Christine Everhart, surveying him with a withering gaze and cold, calculating indifference.

 

“Miss Everhart,” Steve greets her shortly, aiming for neutral but no doubt hitting ‘ _done with this conversation already_ ’. “What can I do for you?”

 

Everhart’s eyes narrow as she ponders her answer, arms crossed and mouth pulled into a pucker like an impertinent teenager. Steve briefly thinks of how his mom or Mrs. Barnes would have scolded him for making such a face, but shuts off those thoughts as quickly as they arose.

 

“Tell me how you sleep at night, after all the damage and death you've solicited in your so-called _campaign for peace_ ,” she demands, catching Steve off-guard. “You're no better than the terrorists you claim to oppose.” Steve’s blood stops in his veins at her statement, his throat becoming thick and sour with bile; he and Everhart usually exchange mildly bitter and implicitly accusatory words, but he's never known her so unabashedly label him as a terrorist - a criminal, a zealot, a murderer.

 

“I don't feel that's a fair representa-” Steve begins, hoping his voice sounds more even to her ears than it does to his own.

 

“Dodging the question? Really, Captain? That's becoming a bad habit of yours and the world is starting to notice,” she smirks, and, morals-be-damned, Steve has never wanted to slap the expression off anyone's face more than in that moment. The only thing stopping him is the swarm of people around them that make potential witnesses to the headline “ _Captain America backhands woman at charity benefit_ ”.

 

That, and the dreadfearpanicsick feeling that has flooded his system and rendered him virtually paralysed.

 

And the hand that's suddenly on his shoulder, warm and firm and familiar, so _tender,_ like a lover and a carer and-

 

“Good evening, Miss Everhart, I hope you're well,” a new voice says, although the tone doesn't match the sentiment. “If you've no objections I think I'll steal Steve away now, we need to talk avenging and team strategy, all that jazz.” Some distant part of Steve’s brain recognises the voice as Sam’s, gratitude immediately warming his heart. He wishes he could express it - a smile, a squeeze of his hand, anything - but he's frozen stock still, the hand guiding him away from the situation before he really knows what's happening.

 

Cold air washes over him and he exhales heavily. He can’t bring his eyes to focus. He closes them. Opens them.

 

He blinks, and all at once all that he can see is the aftermath of the battle in Sokovia, bodies and buildings crushed and lifeless, empty desolation and ruin everywhere that _he_ helped cause with _his_ actions, _his_ decisions, _his_ _hands_. A woman partially buried in the rubble of a skyscraper calls his name, voice distant and echoing in the eerie stillness of the devastation surrounding him.

 

“Yes?” He chokes out, stumbling towards her. She calls his name again, louder this time.

 

“What? What should I do? I don't know what to do…” he gushes, tears filling his eyes and burning hot on his cheeks.

 

“You should have...saved us all. But you're too late. You've already...killed us,” the woman cries, her tangible anger and desperation knocking the breath from Steve’s lungs.

 

“Wait, no, please!” He gasps, staggering forwards to collapse on his knees at her side. “Please no, don't, I didn't- I didn't mean to! I'm sorry, I'm so- I'm so sorry, I didn't-”

 

“Steve!” The woman interrupts him to call his name again, louder and clearer and closer than before. “Steve!”

 

“What?” He sobs now, his shoulders shaking and eyes shutting tight against all the death he sees, all the death he _dealt_.

 

“Steve!”

 

Hands on his shoulders and the blanket of darkness currently enveloping New York break through his senses, snapping him into reality, out of illusion. It’s Sam. Sam had been calling his name, not the woman. He hasn't destroyed Midtown and he hasn't killed her.

 

Steve rapidly blinks away the tears that blur his vision and breathes deeply, takes a moment to focus on the solidity of the concrete beneath his knees, the gentle breeze sweeping the street, the welcome friend helping him slow his breathing and his pulse.

 

“Steve? You with me?” He hears Sam ask worriedly, feels his thumbs now running over his collarbones in a calming rhythm. He nods to answer him, not yet trusting his voice, and tilts his head back to stare up at the black sky, to remind himself it's still there. The sky hasn't fallen yet. Only darkness.

 

“Steve? Talk to me, I need you to talk to me,” Sam prompts. “Are you okay?” The sheer strength of the concern in Sam’s voice is enough to drag Steve’s full attention back to him, and his eyes gradually adjust to focus on Sam’s face - his smooth skin, his even cheekbones, his soft lips shaping a deep frown and his eyes radiating earnest worry, because of Steve. No, _for_ Steve. _It's Sam, he worries about_ Steve _, not the damage he can do._

 

It takes a few seconds for Steve’s brain to properly kick in, to remind him he's meant to be talking right about now. When he finally finds the capacity to speak, he holds Sam’s gaze, unblinking.

 

“I'm okay…” he attempts reassurance, only half-believing his own words. “Just...had a bad...whatever that was. But I'm-” Steve stops himself short, swallowing and shaking his head abruptly, ridding all traces of his meltdown from his mind. “Yeah, I'm fine,” he concludes.

 

Sam holds his eyes firmly, levelling him with an uneasy stare that tells Steve he doesn't believe a word of his bullshit.

 

“You sure?” Sam’s tone gives away that he's offering more than he's indicating. Steve knows he means that if he's not okay, that's okay, and Sam will understand, will help him, will never leave him to deal with his demons alone. Steve debates whether or not to answer honestly, knows that it will only mean he has to deal with embarrassment and awkwardness later if he does, and yet he can't bring himself to say he's okay. Not again. He can't lie to himself anymore.

 

“No,” Steve admits, and the tears well and track down his face almost immediately. “No, I mean, I'm a murderer, aren't I? I'm a bad guy hiding behind a good guy’s badge and the world knows it, they see it, and they all know I'm just a killer. I'm not the good guy. I'm not a hero like I always intended to be, not anymore. I'm as bad as the evil the Avengers fight against,” he rushes out, barely taking pause to breathe, let alone for Sam to reply. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, and he clenches, unclenches, clenches each into a fist over and over again, a distraction from his thoughts or a nervous habit he doesn't know - he only knows it helps somewhat.

 

When Steve looks back to Sam’s face, he looks so sad that Steve crumbles further, burying his face in his hands to cover his cries as people passing them by begin to glance over at them in confusion and suspicion.

 

“Steve…” Sam starts, (he sounds hurt, strained) his right hand now on Steve’s wrists, tugging gently to pull his hands from his face. Steve reluctantly lets them drop, conscious that he looks like a weak, pathetic mess right now, not the leader of Earth's mightiest defence squad.

 

“Steve, that is the most ridiculous thing I have _ever_ heard. You’re no killer, not a chance. You're no more a killer than Wanda, or Rhodey, or me,” Sam explains, holding Steve’s gaze so he'll register the honesty in his words. “We all make mistakes, and we all do things we wish we could undo, but accepting those mistakes, learning from them and bettering yourself, that's the hero part of it.” Sam puts both hands on Steve’s cheeks now, palms warm and thumbs dancing feather-light over Steve’s skin, tickling delicately. “I've seen you do that, Steve. Countless times. You always acknowledge your mistakes and find and way to improve on them, because you _are_ a hero, truly. No matter what that wicked bitch Everhart says, you are good, and the world sees it. The Avengers see it, and we confidently back your leadership.

 

“I’m not even convinced you have the capacity to be bad, Steve - Dr. Erskine saw that even before the formula. You are a good man, Steve. All I see when I look at you is _good_ and _true_ and _right_. _Sweet_ and _smart_ and _beau_ -" Sam cuts his own sentence short, takes a short, steeling breath before continuing. "Steve... You're a hero. And the world knows _that_.” A silence follows Sam’s proclamations that Steve basks in momentarily, thinking hard of how to form a coherent sentence that would serve as a suitable response to...all that. The silence stretches on long enough for Sam's hands to fall away as he starts up again, tone holding the faintest hint of embarrassment this time.

 

“In- In any case, you'll always be _my_ hero, and I know that's not the same thing but I guess-” Sam’s next words never make it out into the world; they're cut off by Steve tugging him close by the back of his neck and fitting their lips together, kissing him soft and slow and languid.

 

Sam ‘hmmm’s in surprise, but within seconds his hands are firmly back on Steve’s cheeks as he begins to give in to the kiss, pushing back eagerly and seemingly unable to help smiling against Steve’s mouth. Steve chuckles and pulls back enough to breathe, leaving their foreheads in contact.

 

“Wow…” Sam breathes out shakily.

 

“Yeah…” Steve agrees, hearing his pulse race in his ears, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He tries to seek out the words to ask if that was okay, if they are okay, if he can kiss him again, but his mind draws a blank, filled purely with the name ‘ _Sam_ ’ surrounded by little pink hearts and cute, domestic stick drawings.

 

Luckily, Sam can apparently read minds, and he asks, tone adorably hopeful, “Again?” Steve doesn't answer, he just closes the distance between their lips once more and throws everything he's got into the kiss.

 

In this moment, Steve can't help feeling like his hero/villain status suddenly doesn't matter so much. Sam thinks he a hero. At least for now, while he's got Sam standing by him like this, and darkness is the only thing falling over New York, Steve can be at peace. He can simply _be_. _This is easy_ , he thinks. And if something else does happen to fall later on, Steve knows it won't be the sky, not this time - it'll be him.

 

*************

 

_3 months later_

 

“See you tomorrow, Nat,” Steve bids farewell to his friend with a wide smile and a small wave, pushing the door shut slowly. Hearing Sam begin clearing away the wine and glasses from the coffee table, Steve turns and takes some time to just watch him, his smile involuntarily becoming soft and dopey. Steve doesn't mind; Sam doesn't notice.

 

“You want any help with those?” Steve eventually asks, wandering closer and stopping beside the coffee table (a stout, darkwood number he'd had bought for Sam after Steve had accidently broken Sam's old one while trying to carry him from the couch to the bedroom in under five seconds).

 

Straightening up, Sam leans in to give Steve a fleeting kiss, short and sweet, and answers with a playful grin, “I got this, baby; you cooked dinner, sit and relax while I clean up.” _Well Steve isn't going to complain._ He moves to take a seat on the sofa and sinks down into the soft cushions to get comfortable.

 

Sam continues on to the kitchen and immediately busies himself with washing dishes. Steve closes his eyes to focus on the sounds of Sam's apartment: the water rushing from the tap, lulling and soothing in its unwavering stream; Sam's shifting as he moves back and forth, retrieving and depositing his kitchenware with practised efficiency; Sam's light humming, so mild it fades in and out even of Steve’s heightened perception - although he does manage to identify the tune as one of Miles Davis’ pieces ( _Blue in Green_ , he thinks, but can't quite be certain). All these sounds, though insignificant individually, have come to mean something as a whole to Steve, something he had, until recently, resigned himself to live his whole life without: _home_. It’d been one of those dreams he hadn't been sure he’d ever be able to realise, after Brooklyn and then his stint in the army, then the ice and coming back to find ‘home’ gone and everything else he'd ever known along with it. But with Sam, at Sam's place, ‘home’ is starting to feel like a real possibility, and he finds himself hoping beyond hope that one day he will finally find where he belongs in the arms of the man he loves.

 

A short time passes, during which Steve remains motionless. Even when Sam flicks off the kitchen light and emerges into the lounge once more, rolling down his sleeves, Steve doesn't shift. Sam finds himself unable to hold in his smile, a welcome fondness invading his gaze and his heart. He loves this man so much, with each and every fibre of his being (sugary cliché intended). Sometimes, usually in moments like this where Sam is able to just watch Steve be calm and content, he finds himself shaken to his core by just how deep his feelings for Steve run; he wouldn't change or lessen them for the world.

 

When he reaches the sofa, he kneels in front of Steve and searches around for his hands, grasps them lightly in his own and raises them to his lips to lay gentle kisses on their backs.

 

“Steve, baby,” Sam probes between pecks, “can I- can I ask you something?”

 

Blearily blinking his eyes open, Steve ‘hmmm’s an affirmation, squeezing Sam's hands briefly.

 

“We've… We've been together for a while now. I know 3 months isn't a particularly long time in a relationship, but we've known each other longer than that, and I've had feelings for you longer than that, so...” Sam pauses to rummage around in the pocket of his jeans, a look of concentration etched into his features.

 

Steve’s fully awake now, alert and near shaking in anticipation; he may be 90+ years old and have very limited personal dating experience, but he's seen enough modern movies now to know that a conversation like this always leads to something big, a milestone in the relationship.

 

Steve hears the telltale jingle before he sees the item in Sam's hand, and his heart skips a beat as he realises with a shuddering gasp that Sam is holding up a set of keys, silver tips glinting in the gold glow of the lounge’s mood lighting. ‘ _Sam wants me to move in with him. He wants to live with me. Full-time_.’ The thoughts circle in his head but don't quite register as real - the idea is so surreal to him, so sudden and unexpected and _perfect._

 

Sam clears his throat, fighting a smirk at Steve’s expression of disbelief. “If you'd like, and if you're ready, I was wondering if- I was really hoping that maybe you'd want to, you know...move in? With me? I had an extra key made just in case.” Steve’s heart aches at the nervousness in Sam's voice, and he surges forward to wrap his boyfriend in a rib-crushing hug, nodding his acceptance excitedly.

 

“Yes! Yes, Sam, of course I'll move in with you!” He pulls back from the hug to plant a firm kiss against Sam's smiling mouth, not caring that their teeth clash as a result; something so trivial couldn't hope to bring him down right now. They kiss a while longer, before Sam pulls away, laughing despite himself.

 

“I had such a smooth speech prepared for that, but in the moment I just...panicked,” he admits, doubt clouding his eyes momentarily. “I was so worried you'd say no, that it was too soon for such a big commitment.”

 

Steve instantly shakes his head, peppering kisses against Sam's lips to chase away his doubts. “Honey, you should know I would never say no to a chance to spend more time with you. I can't wait to spend every night sleeping beside you, every morning cooking you breakfast in bed after we have hot, lazy morning sex.” Steve stops to break into a short fit of laughter, Sam laughing along with him and pulling him in for a series of sloppy kisses. “I want to spend rainy days in with you, watching old movies that I probably watched in the picture house back in Brooklyn. I want to return home from missions with you, sweaty and aching and tired, and be able to sink into bed alongside you. I just want to be by your side as long and as often as you'll let me,” Steve pledges, holding Sam's gaze.

 

Sam's grin feels wide enough to split his face. His heart is in his throat, any and all words he could think to say caught in his lungs, trapped behind the swell of his love for Steve. In lieu of words, he instead rises to his feet, pulling Steve up with him and mumbling a quick, “Stay right here.”

 

Steve is curious, but does as he’s asked. He watches as his boyfriend rushes down the hall to the bedroom, swiftly returning with a record in-hand. He moves to the player where it sits beneath the window and slides the record into place, dropping the needle. It takes no time at all for Steve to recognise the song that plays, his gaze automatically darting to meet Sam's warm eyes. Steve stands waiting, his smile feeling like it might have become a permanent fixture on his face by this point. In just a few steps, Sam reaches Steve’s side and takes his hand in his own, tugging him gently into the small open space behind the sofa.

 

Steve’s face flushes hot and pink and he instinctively resists Sam's coaxing.

 

“No, please, you know I can't dance,” he argues.

 

“Mm-mm, I know you _don't_ dance,” Sam corrects. “You _can_ dance, you just tend to avoid it. You're real good though, so I don't know why.” Sam flashes him a cocky smirk that says he isn't taking no for an answer. It's an expression Steve finds both frustratingly endearing and conflictingly attractive on Sam. Very no-nonsense, very in charge, and it does things to Steve’s insides that he refuses to acknowledge just this moment.

 

“What’s more, it's a slow song - come on,” Sam encourages, giving Steve’s hand one last tug that he doesn't try to fight this time around.

 

For the first few seconds, Steve just feels awkward and stiff. But, once he's settled in Sam's arms, pressed close against his body and able to feel Sam's warmth all around him like a comforter, he relaxes into the gentle swaying movements of their forms. He lets Sam lead him, guide him left to right and into a twist from time to time. Steve simply closes his eyes, rests his head on Sam's shoulder, and willingly loses himself to the romance and peace of the moment; he loses himself in the lyrics he knows by heart, feeling their message ringing true of the life he and Sam are just beginning to build together. Just as long as they stand by one another, he knows they'll be alright.

 

*************

 

 _When the night has come_  
_And the land is dark_  
_And the moon is the only light we'll see_  
_No, I won't be afraid_  
_Oh, I won't be afraid_  
_Just as long as you stand_  
_Stand by me_  
  
_So darlin', darlin'_  
_Stand by me, oh, stand by me_  
_Oh, stand, stand by me_  
_Stand by me_  
  
_If the sky that we look upon_  
_Should tumble and fall_  
_Or the mountains should crumble to the sea_  
_I won't cry, I won't cry_  
_No, I won't shed a tear_  
_Just as long as you stand_  
_Stand by me_  
  
_And darlin', darlin'_  
_Stand by me, oh, stand by me_  
_Oh, stand now, stand by me_  
_Stand by me_  
  
_Darlin', darlin'_  
_Stand by me, oh, stand by me_  
_Oh, stand now, stand by me_  
_Stand by me_  
_Whenever you're in trouble, won't you stand by me?_  
_Oh, stand by me_  
_Won't you stand now?_  
_Oh, stand, stand by me_ _  
When all of our friends is gone…_

**Author's Note:**

> Awh those cuties <(^-^)>
> 
> Thank y'all very much for reading! I hope it was good for you and that you'll come back and check out the next instalment, which should be up in a week or so. Also kudos and comments are greatly appreciated ;)


End file.
